


If You Wrote Down Every Word

by ryssabeth



Series: Novelesque Diary [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no library on Earth that can hold everything he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Wrote Down Every Word

“Combeferre,” Enjolras trots into the library, the jog from Roman Classics leaving him just a little too breathless for his liking. ( _I should start running again._ ) “Combeferre, have you seen Grantaire today?” His breathing is louder than his words, but Combeferre looks up from his book and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“No,” is the reply. “He called out today, said he won’t be coming in. He doesn’t feel well.”

He runs a hand down his face, leaning against the desk for support. ( _It’s been almost sixteen hours_ , he thinks, _since we last talked at all_. And this running count of the hours it’s been is strange for him, it’s a warm stone burning in his chest, because in all the time they’ve known each other, it’s never been this long.)

“Thanks,” Enjolras murmurs, after he’s caught his breath, and he pushes his way out without a backwards glance.

-

**_8 Missed Calls._ **

**Apollo:** Grantaire talk to me.

 **Apollo:** I’m sorry.

 **Apollo:** Is that what you need me to say?

 **Apollo:** I’m sorry.

-

“Enjolras,” Bousset says, his feet propped up on one of the desks, “that’s the third time you’ve checked your phone in the past fifteen minutes.”

“Which averages to about a phone check every five minutes,” Courfeyrac mutters, his notebook long since shut, after Enjolras had devolved this meeting from something productive into silent fretting over whether Grantaire is ever going to text him back.

( _Twenty hours. It’s been almost a day._ )

“Meeting adjourned,” Enjolras whispers to the screen of his phone, where no messages await him. “See you all tomorrow.”

-

 **Apollo:** You’re being entirely unfair.

 **Apollo:** What did I say to hurt you so much?

-

Distress gives way to anger at the mark of twenty-eight hours. His phone has long since been tossed into a corner somewhere, where it won’t be seen or heard or thought about—at least until Enjolras can get to sleep. If he can get to sleep.

( _Please just let me sleep._ )

Enjolras has never felt like he wasn’t good enough before.

It isn’t fair to feel this way.

He wishes Grantaire would call him back.

He wishes he knew what to do.

-

 **Apollo:** I’m coming over.

 **Apollo:** Don’t talk. Just listen.

-

It’s nine in the morning—exactly thirty-six hours after Grantaire had run away, fading into the crowd to hide from him ( _him_ , of all people)—when Enjolras pounds on the door to Grantaire’s flat, and anger is the only thing that doesn’t slip through his fingers when he tries to make a grab for it.

“Grantaire,” he shouts at the door, shoving his fists into his pockets, glaring at the door handle, the number, the hinges. “Grantaire, you _son_ of a _bitch_ , open your _door!_ ” There isn’t any answer and Enjolras can’t say he expected one. “I don’t know what I said,” he says, “I don’t know _why_ you—if you didn’t feel anything, you should have just told me. It would have been fine, do you understand?”

He raps his knuckles gently against the door then, resting his forehead to the right of the number in faded gold numbering. “It was stupid of you to say that I fell in love with the way you tell a story. It’s— _selfish_. How dare you?” He squeezes his eyes shut, thirty-six hours of _nothing_ yawning backward behind him. “How _dare_ you?” He says, louder, the words scraping against the lining of his throat. “I haven’t finished the story yet, do you understand me? No library on Earth could encompass everything you are—there’s no building in the world that could hold all the books you would fill with what you are.”

He taps his forehead against the door. “Jesus. And, for the record, your storytelling is choppy, occasionally, and sometimes you don’t make any sense, and oftentimes you’re a little bit abrasive—which I can appreciate, but that doesn’t make it excellent. If I wanted to fall I love with a storyteller, I would have bent Jehan over a table by now. I am in love with you.”

The stone of anger stops burning, like a candle blown out. “And you can’t tell me otherwise.”

Silence is all that greets him, and Enjolras backs away from the door, the rock that had been on fire merely a weight pressing down upon his ribs.

And then the locks make a sound and the door handle bends and the door cracks open revealing a rumpled, bleary eyed, exhausted Grantaire. “Choppy storytelling has potential, thank you very much.” The door opens wider and Grantaire takes a step back. “I didn’t see you complaining before.”

Enjolras slips past him, into his flat, where books—instead of being in their stacks—are opened and scattered, sitting on certain pages on every surface and in places on the floor. Vodka bottles and whisky bottles run a gauntlet down the small foyer.

He regards them and Grantaire stands silently behind him, shutting the door and cutting off more of the light—besides the lamp on the end table in the living room, where most of the room is covered by books.

“I’m in love with you,” Enjolras says, again, counting the bottles, telling it to each and every one of them, before he turns around, setting his jaw, preparing for an argument. “And if you try to tell me otherwise again, I will hit you.”

“It would be an honour,” Grantaire murmurs, looking away from Enjolras’ face, “to have your fist upon my cheek.”

Thirty-six hours.

And Enjolras pulls Grantaire to him, crushing his thin bones into an embrace that Enjolras has always wanted to give.

There isn’t a library big enough, anywhere in the world, that could fit everything Enjolras feels when Grantaire returns the embrace with a pathetic squeeze and a shaky sigh.


End file.
